A Day in the (Immortal) Life
by Imperator Justinian
Summary: A series of drabbles between the various Civilization Leaders. Because they do more than just stand around and wait for someone to contact them.
1. Critical Mass

Alexander grinned smugly at the sight of the last Byzantine troops scattering before him and the massive war machine he was standing atop of that better resembled a moving fortress than a tank. The gigantic mass of metal had plowed through everything that was sent against it; infantry, tanks, artillery, aircraft and even missiles, and still came out triumphant, exceeding all expectations. The engineers and pilots below warned him that their experimental super-tank had suffered heavy damage in the course of wiping out the entire Byzantine army, but he paid their complaints no heed. The brunette could see the city of Thessalonica in the distance, and he would be darned if he let it slip out of his grip because they needed to make a few quick repairs.

"Full steam ahead!" he commanded, turning back for a second and shouting down the open hatch behind him. He heard a few collective groans from the pilots and engineers inside, but paid them no heed. Looking back to his impending conquest, he donned pair of black aviators after pulling them out of thin air, and struck the coolest pose he could think of. The fact that his back was facing the afternoon sun, casting his shadow across the grassland before him, probably helped too. Justinian, who happened to be standing a few yards away from the gargantuan hunk of battered metal, had been watching his soldiers flee for their lives in disgust, looked up at the sight and facepalmed.

The Emperor strode up to the superweapon, which grinded to a halt a few inches short of trampling the immortal per Alexander's orders, and the Greek King on top of it peered down to the other leader below, who had bent down and picked up a nearby tree branch.

"Ah, the magnanimous Justinian humbles me with his presence!" he proclaimed grandly, his smug grin refusing to leave his face. Justinian, on the other hand, appeared to be more interested in the over-glorified twig he had acquired.

"Tell me; have you come to grovel for your-" his taunt was cut off abruptly by the Byzantine taking the stick he had in his hand and lightly tapping the enormous tank, causing it to fall apart faster than the Bluesmobile. Justinian tossed the stick aside disinterestedly while Alexander, now sitting on the pile of rubbish that was once an unstoppable machine of war, simply stared off blankly into the distance, the engineers and pilots below clawing their way out of the debris in the background. Finally the armor-clad leader shook his head, beginning to sputter out a few coherent words.

"But- How!?" he began, clutching a few fragments of the once mighty tank. "This- This crushed your entire military! It resisted bullets! Anti-armor rounds! Missiles for Zeus-Ammon's sake! And all you did was take a stick, _A STICK_ , AND TAP IT!"

He threw the pieces of metal he was clutching angrily back into the pile he was sitting on, punching it a few times for good measure, before beginning to cry over the machine. Justinian just raised an eyebrow at watching what could very much be called a meltdown, and began pacing back and forth, arms folded behind his red cloak, like a schoolmaster would when lecturing a misbehaving student.

"Well, you see Alexander; it's called critical mass," the head of the humiliated leader shot up, clearly confused and too angry to think straight in the first place, and the Byzantine stopped his pacing to face him, shaking his head disappointedly. "Never mind. But what on earth made you think you could take one of my most important cities with a single tank to begin with?"

The Greek blinked once more, taking a deep breath as he started to rethink his logic in attacking in the first place, while Justinian resumed his pacing. "After all; how would a single tank that had been battered mercilessly be able to control a city of ten million?"

As Justinian finished his explanation, the whole weight of reality finally came down on Alexander, and he fell backwards onto the pile, the sound of his armor hitting the metal reverberating throughout the once-battlefield as he stared at the sky. The Byzantine leaned in, an eyebrow raised at the other immortal's dramatics, before turning back around.

"Go home, Alexander." it was more of a request out of pity than a command, but the humiliated brunette behind Justinian slowly rose and marched away disappointedly regardless, all the while muttering under his breath. The Emperor let out a bated breath as he watched the other immortal slink off into the sun, before turning back and shooting a very frustrated look at his now nervous soldiers.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

I've noticed that, out of everything in the Civilization fandom, relationships and dynamics between the leaders are probably the most overlooked as a whole. So I gathered up a list of the seventy/eighty something leaders that appeared between Civs 4 and 5, narrowed it down to thirty, and have decided to write a collection of drabbles about them to remedy that. As for this chapter, this was a bit of a satire on how people can go from taking advantage of really gamey mechanics to get themselves out of a corner to lambasting them the next minute. That, and I think it's funny that a group of shirtless, club-wielding warriors can defeat a Giant Death Robot if it has just one health point left (since an attack, no matter the disparagement between parties, will always do damage).


	2. Interviews

Justinian sighed and leaned back in the grotesquely ornate chair he found himself seated in, placing a head over his forehead and closing his eyes. Augustus, having placed his wrists on the wooden table that he, along with Justinian, Isabella and Montezuma, was seated behind, turned to look at his colleague with a somewhat quizzical, but mainly indifferent, expression.

"What?" the Emperor removed his hand from his head at his ally's verbal prodding, sparing a venomous glance at the paperwork that sat on his part of the table before turning to answer the Roman.

"Don't you think this is a bit... demeaning?"

"How so?" the question, coming from his left, and bearing a distinguishable detached dignity that Isabella was famous for, came across as more of a demand.

"Well, think about it; the four of us have been tasked with interviewing new candidates for leaders, but our civilizations happen to be some of the most static when it comes to that. It's either me or Theodora for Byzantium, Augustus or Julius for Rome, and both you and Montezuma have continually been the only leaders of your civilizations throughout every title."

"Meh," Augustus commented with an apathetic shrug, snatching a few of the papers off his desk. "Job security. Now, the first applicant is... Alexander?"

"What?" the Princeps passed the papers to the Byzantine, who quickly scanned over them before passing them to the Spaniard on his other side.

"Perhaps it is a different Alexander?" before either of the leaders could reply, Montezuma, who was seated on the other side of Augustus, pounded his chest with his fists.

"LET THE DOGS OUT!" he shouted, immediately drawing the attention of the other three. "I have a clambake I need to marinate by yesterday!"

The other three leaders blinked simultaneously, each sharing the same dumbfounded expression. Somehow, the person waiting seemed to understand Montezuma's gibberish, and the gilded doors to the room swung open. Sure enough, the Alexander they were all familiar with paraded in.

"Why are you here, Alexander?" the Byzantine's question echoed the sentiments of two of three of the other leaders. Montezuma was too busy sacrificing the animal crackers he brought on a chocolate bar altar to care.

"Simple; I'm here to petition for my own Civilization." Isabella crossed her arms, eyes narrowing slightly at the leader.

"Alexander; you're already the leader of Greece and have been since the original Civilization."

"Well, yes," he conceded with a dismissive wave of the hand. The woman leered slightly at the action, and the King felt a shiver run down his spine before recomposing himself and carrying on. "But I was the king of _Macedon_ , not Greece. Greece wasn't even a unified nation at the time; it was just a bunch of City States and leagues that were usually divided between Athens, Sparta, Thebes, Corinth and later Epirus! Give it to Pericles or Pyrrhus or Lysander, and-"

Augustus let out a mildly irritated sigh. "Oh, good grief."

The Roman then reached into his stark white tunic and pulled out a small remote control riddled with various red buttons. Alexander seemed oblivious to the movement as he continued his rant, while both Justinian and Isabella eyed the development with increasing curiosity as Augustus looked over the device for the proper button. He finally found it, and with no decorum whatsoever, pushed it, causing the floor underneath Alexander to suddenly open up.

"Pella isn't even a city in th-" it took the Macedonian a few seconds to realized he was standing on thin air, before letting out a few words under his breath and falling into the abyss below. The floor closed up behind him, leaving no signs of it being a trap door, and Augustus disinterestedly returned to the papers at his desk while Justinian and Isabella looked on in shock.

"W-Where does that even lead to?" the only answer Justinian got was an apathetic, non-committal shrug.

"How many trap doors do you even have installed in your palace?"

"I forget." Augustus didn't even bother to look up from the paperwork at Isabella's question, but immediately pushed another button. This time the floor fell out from underneath Montezuma's chair. Both Justinian and Isabella shifted uncomfortably in their seats, and the Princeps looked back up.

"Right, the next applicant is a Charles V." he commented as if nothing had just happened.

"Carlos?" the Eastern and Western Romans both turned to look at the queen, who merely shook her head. "Never mind."

Immediately after she had said that, a man with a well trimmed beard and a chin that could give Justinian's a run for his money, clad in an elegant black and gold suit of plate armor, entered the room. He stopped before the table now consisting of three leaders and gave a slight bow.

"You look... vaguely familiar." Augustus remarked, eyebrows furrowed in a slightly interested, scrutinizing gaze.

"Erm, yes... Well, I was a leader. Somewhat." Justinian put a hand to his chin.

"Somewhat?" the man nodded.

"Yes, I was supposed to be the Leader of Austria in Civilization III, but both of us were cut last minute to make room for the Zulu and Sumerians. We're still in the files, though." the Byzantine blinked, tapping a finger against his temple, before his eyes widened in disbelief slightly.

"They cut out Austria in favor of the Zulu and Sumerians?" the Hapsburg shrugged.

"I didn't exactly comprehend the logic behind it either," Charles then cleared his throat and placed his hands behind his cuirass. "Regardless, I also served as the basis for the unnamed King of Spain in Colonization, and had a cameo in the Gods and Kings intro."

"Very well," Augustus commented monotonously. "And what Civilization would you like to apply for?"

"I was the Holy Roman Emperor, Archduke of Austria and the first King of Spain, so I can be what the situation demands of me."

"We'll send your application upstairs, thank you." the man gave a nod in appreciation to Isabella before turning around and leaving. Justinian let out a sigh of relief.

"Well, that went better than expected. Who's next?" the Roman glanced down at his papers.

"Constantine." Justinian leaned over to the Roman's side, examining the papers with interest.

"Does it say which civilization he would like to apply for."

"It says Rome, so I assume that means he would like to apply for Rome." Justinian furrowed his brow.

"It would be possible he means Eastern Rome, or rather Byzantium, considering he was our first Emperor." Augustus turned to look at him.

"Just because he moved the capital to Constantinople, does not mean he was the first Byzantine Emperor, Justinian. Ravenna had already served as the de facto capital of the Empire for some time before Constantine." the red-clad man grimaced slightly.

"Er... Yes, but-" he was cut off by Augustus, whose neutral façade had broken down in the face of a slight frown and narrowed eyes, hovering his hand over the remote control lying on the table. Justinian closed his mouth with a disdainful frown, turning his attention back to the doors. Both Romans blinked at the sight of the aspiring leader leaving the doorway and disappearing down the hallway.

"In the time that you two were busy bickering over semantics like children," Isabella began, straightening out her stack of papers against the table and drawing the attention of the two men. "I had conducted the entire interview with him and set aside his application for later."

Augustus raised an eyebrow disinterestedly, pursing his lips as his hand continued to hover of the remote, his gaze boring into the Spanish queen. She just returned it with an equally icy one of her own. Justinian began to sweat from the intensity of the glares on both sides of him, and let out a sigh of relief as the Princeps chuckled amusedly at Isabella's refusal to give ground and lifted his hand away from the device on the desk.

"Now, I believe the next applicant is a Taizong." the trio's attention turned back to the doors as a man clad in a ornate yellow robe, emblazoned with the pattern of a dragon on the front, entered this time, giving a deep bow in the direction of the table and obscuring his head underneath the headdress he wore, before resuming his path.

"So, Taizong, tell us why we should consider making you a leader?"

"Well, my reign was so successful it was considered a standard to compare against the reigns of all my successors, dynastic or otherwise." the edges of the Roman's lips curled upwards slightly, and he suddenly took great interest in his fingernails.

"You'll have to be more creative than that; I'm pretty sure that's the reason I'm here." Justinian rolled his eyes, his voice becoming a few octaves lower.

"Amazingly..." he then cleared his throat after, standing from his seat. "While Augustus does have a point, I do agree that China could be represented... better."

He drummed a few fingers against the desk below, drawing an irate look from the Roman and a disconcerted glance form the Spaniard. "Tell you what; we'll pass along your resume, and though I can't make any guarantees about the main civilization series, we can get probably get you into one of the Revolution spinoffs."

The man blinked. "Isn't that the one that dumbs down the series to a laughable level?"

"Well... put bluntly, but yes."

"Should I consider that an insult?" Augustus leaned back in his seat.

"Well, considering they put in Kennedy over Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, Roosevelt and Reagan, I wouldn't blame you if you did. But it also means you have a better chance of getting in as well." the yellow-clad man scratched the back of his head.

"Should I consider that an insult as well?" Isabella pinched the bridge of her nose.

"At this point, I just think it would be better if we just ended this interview."

"Agreed." and with that, the prospective Leader left with a bow, and the Ice Queen turned to the two Romans. Justinian chuckled nervously at her gaze, while Augustus just let out a blithe sigh and pushed another one of the buttons on the remote control.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

So, I've always wondered what it would be like if the Civilization Leaders had to go through some screening/interview to get selected to become leaders, and combined with my inner history buff, this somehow happened. But hey, it had Montezuma in it!

Anyways, Charles V is probably the greatest, and only, 'pseudo'-leader in Civ history due to how many cameos and mentions he's had, while Taizong was sadly regulated to the Revolution spinoffs. Constantine, on the other hand, will probably never become a leader outside of another Fall of Rome scenario or mods, simply because his position on what civilization he should lead is so confusing and debated.


	3. Stories

"Gather around, children," Maria Theresa let out a small chuckle as the youngsters before her quickly scrambled to her feet, sitting down in a small semi-circle around her chair. Though the Austrian Leader's schedule was usually quite busy, between actual affairs of the state to her overzealousness towards practicing the various instruments she played, the elderly woman still set aside the time to pay occasional visits to a particular orphanage in Vienna that she personally patronized; the smiles on the faces of the children as she read to them made the somewhat straining trip worth it.

"What're you gonna read us today, Miss Theresa?" the ornately dressed woman's smile only grew slightly at the child's innocent comment. They were respectful, clearly taught good manners, but still lacked the knowledge that she was an immortal Empress, and saw her as little else than the kind old lady who would come to read to them every once in a while. Their admiration came from endearment, not the respect that her title demanded.

 _"If only everyone could be as pure as these children..."_ the white-clad woman looked down at the history book siting in her lap, and flipped it open to the bookmarked page. "Today, I will be reading you _A Tale of Two Hordes_."

One of the children raised his hand. "I haven't heard of that one before! What's it about?"

The woman only smiled. "Why don't we read and find out?"

* * *

 _Many centuries ago, in a faraway land known as Russia that was famed for its wonders, a great war was underway. Two neighboring nations, full of people who, rather than live in one place, traveled around their open lands on their horses, had both invaded. The Huns and the Mongols, as they were called, were both unaware of the other's intentions; too focused on all the gold they could find to truly notice. One day, though, they happened to stumble into each other as they approached the capital city of Moscow..._

"Lady Catherine! Lady Catherine!" the beleaguered Russian Leader looked up from her desk, her face devoid of any vibrancy, the beauty she was famed for having made way for dark bags underneath her eyes and wrinkles from the incessant work and worrying. She only sighed wearily at the servant's sudden intrusion, having no doubt that the boy was only hear to bring her another piece of bad news.

"The Mongols are nearing!" she dreaded her own question, and her mood was made no better by the page's panicking.

"Where?"

"Here!" between her shock and horror, the woman failed to notice the quill slipping out of her hand and clattering to the floor. Then, as if God himself had been conspiring against her, the hysterical page carried on.

"That's not the end of it! The Huns are also on their way!" and with that declaration went any hopes the woman had of being able to orchestrate a safe evacuation of the city. Catherine leaned back in her seat, shifting her dress slightly before burying her head in her hands. The Russian stayed like that for a few moments, silently listening to the sounds of the messenger running around frantically while shouting out about their imminent doom, knowing very well that the loss of the Capital would completely cut off the few cities that remained unmolested in the north and west from each other, not to mention her own capture and a massacre. After what felt like an eternity of gathering her resolve, she stood and quickly exited the room, marching across the palace to the balcony that laid closest to the city walls.

Shoving open the glass doors and quickly striding out onto the porch, she could clearly make out the two armies in the distance. However, much to her surprise, they had simply stopped at the sight of each other. Catherine's alabaster face brightened; if her suspicion was correct, she could kill two birds with one stone.

* * *

The two leather-clad horseman scrutinized each other, having rode out from the front of their perspective armies. The two immortals, a fact unbeknownst the other currently, rode in a short circle around each other, eyes running up and down before returning to their prior positions. The one on the grey horse, wearing a bit more armor than the other, cleared his throat.

"And who are you?" the man's voice echoed out in a common trade language, his tone a bit more refined than one might expect from one of his position. The other warlord, mounted upon a white house, pounded his chest and smiled proudly.

"I am Attila! Leader of the Huns, ruler of the steppes, destroyer of civilizations, and the Scourge of God! And who are you to stand in the way of my rampage?" The rider across from Attila scoffed.

"I am Genghis Khan: unifier of the Mongols, supreme leader, and master of all under the heavens. And by what right do you ride in defiance before me?" Attila just let out a healthy bout of laughter.

"By what right?" the man's gauntlet smacked against the side of his saddle a few time's, the Mongolian's eyes narrowing in displeasure at the Hun's insolence, before the man wiped a few forced tears out of his eyes. "My own! And I suggest you and your merry little band trot aside; the last few people who denied me my right ended up... well, that's a story for another time."

Khan merely snorted indignantly. "There is only one city and yet there are two armies. I believe you understand what must be done."

One of the riders closer to the Mongolian Leader cleared his throat loudly enough for the Hun across from them to hear. "My Khan, though the warrior's way is always true, would it not be prudent to sack the city first then fight over the spoils?"

Genghis Khan raised an eyebrow at the aide's comment, a hand slowly moving to the sword strapped to his side, only for Attila's laughter to redirect his attention.

"That man has a good head on his shoulders!" the Scourge of God commented. "I suggest you let him keep it there."

"Be that as it may," a new voice rang out, and every head quickly turned to see the feminine voice had come from a white-clad woman standing in front of the city gates, surrounded by a small group of pikemen. "Do you truly think you could trust each other not to betray the other while running through Moscow and taking everything for themselves?"

Genghis Khan put a hand to his chin, scratching his beard as he mulled over Catherine's words, while Attila nodded. "That is true as well."

The Russian smiled slightly, folding her hands as she continued. "And both of you claim to be the true master of the plains. If you truly want to prove your claim, one of you must overcome the other."

Her final, not-so-subtle, encouragement pushed both the warlords over the edge. Genghis was the first to draw his sword. "Ha! I will not abide by any pretenders! Let your arrows fly, men!"

Attila was no slouch either, quickly pulling his sword and snapping the reins of his mount. "Well show these fools the meaning of the word terror!"

The armies and leaders, too busy cutting each other to shreds, failed to notice Catherine and her entourage quietly slipping back inside the city.

 _And by the time the battle was other, both armies that had managed to nearly conquer Russia were too small to do anything else but slink back to their homelands. Catherine had forced the two leaders to not only give back every city they took, but even made them give her extra gold, too, and Russia returned to peace._

* * *

Maria Theresa closed the book and placed it back on her lap, looking down on the children, all of who were still sitting at the base of her chair and looking up intently. "So, who can tell me what the moral of the story is?"

"Oh! Me! I can!" the Austrian chuckled at the child's comment as he energetically rocked back and forth, shaking his hand to try to get her attention.

"Yes, Franz?"

"Greed never leads to anything good!" she nodded.

"Good boy. Now-" the sudden chiming of the nearby clock as it struck three abruptly drew her attention, and the Empress sighed.

"Ah, I'm sorry children, but it appears that my time is up," a series disappointed groans and pleas met her ears at the declaration.

"Please, Miss Theresa? One more story?"

"I would like to, but I have a luncheon at five, and I can't be late," she quickly followed her half-hearted rebuttal with a silent prayer that the innocent children sitting before her would never have to know the horrors of politics. The youngsters only increased their pleas, and she finally relented and sat back down.

"All right, I suppose I can spare the time for one more story," the atmosphere of the room quickly turned around at her acquiescence, some of her listeners even going so far as to cheer when she opened the tome again and cleared her throat. "This story is about a man whose neighbors repeatedly bothered him..."

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

Sorry about how long it took to get this one out, I've been a bit busy this month, but I'm happy with how this chapter turned out as well.


	4. Swords

The hearty laughter of various leaders rang out through one of the many ornate halls of Azuchi Palace that they were gathered in. The seven members of a certain coalition, Alexander, Augustus, Bismarck, Genghis Khan, Boudicca, Montezuma, and the host of this particular meeting, Nobunaga, were all gathered around a low bearing, circular table, talking amicably as the official topic had long ago been settled. And, somehow, the conversation had drifted onto the topic of the antiquated objects of swords.

"Ha!" Boudicca cheered, taking a hearty swig out of the mug in front of her before slamming the gladius that usually hung from her side down onto the table. "Clearly, mine is the best! Balanced, good reach, sturdy material..."

"Please," Alexander replied with a dismissive wave of the hand, before unsheathing his kopis and twirling it around in his hands a few times, much to Augustus' chagrin as the metal edged closer to his face with each rotation, before the Greek King finally returned the blade to its scabbard. "A sword is only as good as the person using it."

The Celtic Queen glowered at his comment, reaching for the hilt of her sword. "Perhaps you would like to put that theory to the test, pretty boy?"

Alexander shot her a smug grin in return, but before he could offer a quip of his own, a bout of laughter from the Mongolian leader sitting between the two interrupted them.

"Your argument is pointless; I could easily best the both of you," to prove his point, the Khan unsheathed his sabre and leveled it between the gazes of the two leaders, who each eyed him with a degree of incredulity. Bismarck putting down his glass rather loudly drew then attention of the table to the chancellor, who looked like he was trying to hold back laughter at the sight of the curved blade.

"Zat's not a sword," the German remarked. " _Zis_ is a sword!"

Bismarck's rebuttal was followed by him slamming his Zweihander onto the table, the edge of the massive broadsword being buried into the wood. Alexander, Boudicca and Genghis Khan each visibly flinched at the sight, and Bismarck only raised an eyebrow, apparently satisfied in having settled the debate in his favor. Montezuma's guileless cackling, however, begged to differ.

"What about my sword?" Montezuma then pulled out his ceremonial knife and stabbed it into the table. Nobunaga took a stoic sip out of his teacup, reserving any thoughts he had about his furniture being used as a chopping block, while the other five leaders reactions varied from nervous to deadpan.

"That's a dagger, Montezuma," Montezuma crossed his arms and leered at Alexander for his comment.

"So? It's sharp and pointy and shiny!" no one was willing to argue with the deranged Aztec's logic, primarily out of the fear that he might try to demonstrate his point.

"Nobunaga," Boudicca began, hoping to draw attention away from Montezuma, and causing the Daimyo to look up. "Surely you have an opinion on the matter? You are one of the most respected swordsmen in the world."

The six other heads at the table turned to face the Japanese leader, who had set down his cup of tea, and had stroked his moustache in contemplation.

"Perhaps..." the man muttered before standing. "Follow Nobunaga."

The Daimyo turned and began to walk away towards a side room, the various leaders exchanging glances before collecting their arms and following, Augustus absentmindedly wondering why he was still present with the actual talks concluded. Nobuanga slid open the panel that served as a door to the room, revealing a massive closet with a massive amount of swords of varying sizes lining the walls.

"Is this... an armory?" the armored man shook his head in response to Boudicca's question.

"Nobunaga's collection."

"How many swords could one man need?" though the question was asked by Bismarck, it reflected the thoughts of many of the other leaders staring into the room that their host had now entered.

"You can never have to many weapons," Genghis Khan commented.

"Indeed," Nobunaga replied, removing one blade from its place on the wall. "Every sword has its place."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Take this one for example; it is specifically designed to break deadlocks," the Daimyo returned the weapon to its place and took another one. "Or this one; its length makes it best for fighting against multiple opponents."

"Or these;" the man then turned around to another wall rack. "That blade is best for decapitation."

The other leaders reactions varied, but, save Montezuma's increased interest, most of them contained some amount of disturbed. Nobunaga carried on. "The sword above that is best impaling foes, and the one above that is specifically designed for ritual disembowelment, and this one is-"

"Thank you, Nobunaga, but I believe we get the idea," a slightly green Alexander hastily commented, taking a cautious step away from the increasingly fascinated, and pantless, Aztec that was standing next to him.

Augustus rolled his eyes. "And, pray tell, what is the practicality of having twenty or so different swords designed for one purpose when one can simply accomplish all of them?"

"By mastering many the many different uses of a sword, one can convey them into a single blade. And so, there is only one way to determine who has mastered the blade the most," Nobunaga picked another blade off the shelf and quickly drew it from its scabbard, the Princeps taking a few steps back as the other leaders drew their own blades. Montezuma looked on eagerly.

The five leaders spread out, each eyeing the other warily as they took fighting stances. Nobunaga spun his katana in his hand a few times, before fluidly retracting his blade. Not a second had passed after the Daimyo's display that a loud crack rang out through the room, and Nobunaga grunted as his shoulder flew back, sword clattering to the ground and free hand quickly clutching his bloody wound. Everyone turned around in shock, watching as Augustus put a pistol back in his toga.

"I have a gun. I win."

The Roman's voice was stately and utterly devoid of emotion as he turned around and left the room at a leisurely pace, leaving behind four thoroughly shocked allies, a smarting Nobunaga, and a disappointed Aztec.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

I'm not really certain what to think of this chapter, but at least I got it out on time.


	5. Mornings

It was a beautiful day in the Holy Roman capital of Aachen; the sun clung overhead in the early morning sky, blues of the coming morning lazily chasing away the oranges and reds of the sunrise, creating a canvas of colors on the horizon. A gentle breeze blew in from the east, complimenting the warm temperatures of midsummer, and Charlemagne let out a content sigh. The Frank leaned against the stone railing of his balcony, closing his eyes as the wind blew through his hair.

"It's a lovely morning, is not, Roland?" his faithful paladin, always standing in his shadow, gave a nod.

"Yes, sire. Might I suggest you enjoy it from the safety of your balcony?" the bearded man sighed.

"I can't stay cooped up in the palace forever, Roland," he knew trying to persuade the man otherwise was an exercise in futility, but that was why he was the Captain of his Guard. And, even then, he still held authority over him. "Besides, at this hour, I doubt any would-be assassins are out and about."

"Perhaps that is what they desire you to believe, sire," Charlemagne chuckled at the knight's obstinate reply.

"Perhaps so. But I doubt they would try anything if you were nearby, my friend," appealing to both Roland's pride and sense of duty seemed to work, as moments later the leader heard the sounds of metal clinking, indicating that the man had bowed. He had also planned to bring up the fact that many leaders had proven time and time again their immortality held up against manmade wounds, no matter how grievous, even if they were capable of completely incapacitating them for anywhere from a few days to decades, if that had failed to work, so he gave a silent thanks that the man was being less stubborn than usual today.

"If you wish, milord, but please try to make yourself inconspicuous," the Emperor looked down and conceded that his bodyguard had a point. Going on a stroll around the capital dressed in his full imperial regalia would be the equivalent of just putting a bull's-eye on his back, either to actual assailants or the press.

"Very well."

* * *

A few minutes later the two had left the palace grounds and were headed down a vacant, cobbled road. The Frankish Emperor had changed into a stripped dress shirt and kakis, complete with a bowtie, making him look more like a businessman on his way for an early-morning conference than an immortal leader. He had even bothered to bring an empty briefcase with him to give credence to the fabrication. Roland hadn't bothered to change out of his ceremonial armor, though he did remove a few of the more flashy decorations that identified him as a palace guardsman as opposed to the simpler-garbed city guard, but at least kept enough distance between himself and the leader that it wasn't completely obvious he was following him.

They proceeded into the central plaza of the rustic city, only the tranquil sounds of the central fountain and the early songs of birds in the oaks that hung around the edges accompanying their footsteps. The incognito-Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire slowly found his seat on one of the wrought iron benches that circled the large fountain, placing the briefcase at the foot of it, leaning against the curved back, head tilted downwards and arm on the nearby armrest, while Roland took up post near one of the arced entrances that connected the streets to the plaza. The two stayed there for a few minutes, and after watching the sun continue its ascent, Roland shifted his gaze back to the leader and raised an eyebrow, trying to decide if he had fallen asleep or not.

However, the sounds of nearby footsteps drew his attention. The Frank turned, watching a woman pass through the plaza in a hurry, on her way to work if her dress was any indication. A few more seconds passed, and more people started passing through the plaza in sporadic groups. Charlemagne didn't react, and no one seemed to spare a second glance at the leader or the soldier a few feet away. Roland decided it was time to get his lord to return to the palace before that changed. The paladin took a few steps forward, but stopped in his tracks when someone noticed the leader on the bench. He was a young man, probably headed to an early-morning college class, and at first only took a curious glance at the older man before looking like he was about to head on his way. But his head suddenly whipped back to the leader on the bench, and he cleared his throat.

"Excuse me?" alarm bells went off in Roland's head, but before he could move to intervene, a subtle hand gesture from the leader had him stand down. Charlemagne shifted and looked up, seeing the shock on the man's face with a small amount of amusement.

"Yes? How might I help you?" the student gave a quick bow, and the leader absentmindedly wondered what gave him away while stroking his distinctive beard.

"Can I please ask you a question?" inwardly, the leader groaned, having little doubt in his mind the question would be loaded politically if the man's age was any indication, but he kept up a pleasant face.

"Certainly."

"What is it like to be immortal?" the question caused the Holy Roman to pause, interlocking his fingers and sitting back in his seat, thinking over the admittedly thoughtful question.

"Well..." he began heavily. "After a few thousand years of enduring death, war, politics, disease, famine and general strife, sometimes all you want to do is sit down on a bench on a quiet morning, listen to the birds chirp and watch the water flow out of a fountain."

The young man seemed to catch his less-than-subtle hint, gave a quick and muttered apology, and went on his way. Roland walked up behind his lord, began to say something, but an upbeat chuckle from the leader cut him off.

"Yes, Roland, I know," he grabbed the empty briefcase and stood. "Time to head back, yes."

The Frank took a glance in the direction the student headed off, before turning to head back to the palace, Roland besides him.

"It's good to get out every once in a while, Roland."

"And why is that, my lord?" Charlemagne smile.

"Because you never know when you can gain a new appreciation for something as mundane as a morning."

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

Yep; another Civ IV throwback. Anyways, I always wondered how an interaction between a leader and an average citizen would play out like, and this somehow happened.


	6. Titles

"Zo, can anyone tell me why we're still waiting to start za council?" Bismarck's comment cut through the heavy atmosphere surrounding the table that was used for one of them infinitely many Councils of Constantinople. Justinian, seated across from the German, looked up from the book he had been engrossed in.

"We can't begin the World Congress until all delegates are accounted for," the Byzantine answered curtly, looking back down at the tome afterwards. Bismarck's hands gripped the armrests of his chair in frustration, the Chancellor's lips straightening into a thin line as he tried to think who he could later hold responsible. Alexander, who had been performing various tricks with a yo-yo, slumped back in his own overstuffed chair at the answer.

"Who came up with that rule, anyways?" the Greek King's comment caused Justinian to look up again, his brown eyes bearing a bit more irritation than last time.

"It's one of our unspoken rules," the Emperor looked back down, his voice dropping barely above a disdainful whisper. "Like how we always have to use my place to host these events, too."

Just then, the doors to the room the leaders were gathered in swung open. Every leader at the table turned to watch as a herald clad in ornate blues and silvers marched into the room and unrolled a scroll tied to his belt, clearing his throat before speaking.

"Announcing his royal majesty, his grace, excellency, most beloved of France and appointed by and accountable only to God, protector of the eldest daughter of the church, Marshall of the Grand Army, the King of France, Duke of Orleans, Duke of Champagne, Duke of Berry, Count of Toulouse, Count of Provence, Master of Versailles, Lord of Bourbon..." The herald continued to list off titles and epithets for some undiscernible, agonizingly long, time, each mantle grating down on the leader's ears and collective patience like nails on a chalkboard. Justinian lifted his head out of his palms, eye twitching, and made the mistake of letting his sarcasm get the better of him.

"Lord of the Flies..."

"Lord of the Flies-" the herald repeated monotonously, blinking immediately afterwards. The man then rolled the scroll back, cleared his throat, and began again. "Announcing his royal majesty, his grace, excellency, most beloved of France and appointed by and accountable only to God..."

Justinian sunk back in his chair at the amount of glares he was getting from all sides, Augustus just sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose. The servant went through each and ever title again, every tick from the clock on the wall behind the Byzantine like a countdown until someone exploded, chipping away at the sanity of the Emperor. Finally, the man reached the end of his list, letting out a pent-up breath as he finished.

"Louis XIV," the Frenchman finally strutted into the room, completely oblivious to the murderous stares he was getting from half the table as he flipped the sides of his wig flamboyantly. Before the King had a chance to sit down at the only unoccupied chair at the table, Montezuma blinked obliviously, scratching his sideburns and leaning forward.

"Who?" Louis' expression dropped and he gestured for the herald to begin listing off his titles again, while Bismarck screamed in frustration and lunged at Montezuma. Justinian just sighed.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:** Welp, I'm way overdue with this chapter. All I can say is I'm sorry, and that hopefully circumstances won't compound on themselves like they did last time. But, to make it up to you, I'll be uploading three chapters this month.


	7. Ideologies

**Author's Notes:** Unfortunately, it doesn't look like that third chapter will be coming to pass, and for that, I apologize. I couldn't make up my mind about how to end the second chapter I wanted to get out, but I hope this one will make up for it. And so, in honor of the nearing election day, I give you this chapter; how the leaders react to changing their ideologies.

* * *

It was a stormy night in the Danish Capital of Copenhagen, but the heavy rain and violent claps of thunder did little to put a damper on the mood in the Palace's Mead Hall. While the pretenses the assembly inside had gathered for were dire, it had gone the way of almost every gathering Harald Bluetooth hosted.

"Right..." Harald, from his place at the end of the stained table, slurred as he fumbled for his mug. "Let's... Raise another toast..."

A few hiccups echoed from the gathered Vikings as they all shakily rose their drinks, some sloshing the liquid onto the table or their neighbors. One guest tried, only to groan and fall face-first into the oak below, sending his mead across it. No one particularly seemed to care. Harald tried to clear his throat, but only succeeded in belching.

"Since this whole Autonomy-"

"Autobiography," someone in the crowd tried to correct. Harald nodded with a dopey smile like he had just been given the advice of the century.

"Autogamy... Ideology... thing isn't working out," the Danish king nearly fell out of his chair at that, but managed to recover. "We'll be switching to... Free mead..."

Everyone gave another drunken cheer and raised their mugs again, despite the fact they were all empty by now. Harald leaned back in his seat to down his empty glass, only to fall out of his chair and land on the hard, stone floor, unconscious. Everyone else followed suit.

* * *

Another election day had come and gone in America. Throngs of citizens had gathered outside the Presidential Palace in Washington to hear the capital's namesake resident read the results in person from his balcony. The roads were clogged to the point all the American leader could see was one massive sea of people and a few buildings lucky enough to be peeking out from it. Washington felt the envelope pass into his hands from a nearby aide, and shakily undid the seal on it, pulling out the ballot held inside. He raised an eyebrow from behind his readers; the President couldn't quite fathom how a near majority of people would want to give up their freedom in favor of Order, but the republic's process' had to be upheld.

Besides; if they wanted to put near-unlimited power into his hands, then he would just use that to undo it.

Washington let out a sigh. This wasn't going to go down well, regardless. "And the people have spoken-"

"No we haven't!" someone in the crowd below shouted. "Only a near majority have!"

That was followed by a very large murmur in agreement from the rest of the mass underneath, that steadily began to grow louder. Washington pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes.

 _"They've started early,"_ he thought bitterly. _"I haven't even read the results and they're already upset."_

At least he could probably press for a recount if this kept up.

And so it did. From what the leader could tell, it erupted as the result of one of many of the arguments in the crowd getting out of hand; already people were drawing themselves up along their ideological lines, and all it took was a single left hook for everything to explode. The crowd started clashing against each other like the waves of the ocean; people lunging at one another like it was some giant game of leap frog. And then it turned into a full scale riot.

Knives and handguns were pulled, people started screaming, police started rushing into the crowd in a vain attempt to contain it, and one of Washington's aides pulled on his sleeve and urged him to retreat to the safety of the building behind them. He just stared on in horror as the violence escalated.

Some fedora-wearing men pulled tommy guns out from underneath their trench coats and began firing indiscriminately as the building behind them suddenly erupted in fire, only for someone to ram into them with their mini-van, which promptly exploded. A group of cavalry rushed into the mass, sabers blaring, a stray bullet knocking off one of the rider's tricorn. Someone with a flamethrower began torching a nearby building until someone else, wielding a pool noodle, hit him on the back of the head and knocked him down, only to get bludgeoned with a guitar from someone behind him. Washington began folding the paper in his hands with a hopeless expression as he watched two people duel with tree branches.

The crowd began to part as an elephant started to charge through it, followed by a few clowns mounted on ostriches, and it paused for a second when someone fired a bazooka at another nearby building, sending a hail rubble raining down on them. Washington ducked, a row of bullets burying themselves into the wall behind him seconds later, and stood back up in time to witness someone unleashing a fire extinguisher on the people around him. A few people shouted as they began loading a bombard and prepared to fire it, only to stop when the clocktower - somehow still standing - struck twelve. Everyone dropped their weapons and slumped off to get lunch.

Washington only sighed and tossed his new paper airplane into one of the flaming piles of rubble that used to be a building.

Just another election day.

* * *

It was a quiet day in Babylon, and that meant the Palace staff were on edge; there was never a quiet day. And just as Nebuchadnezzar's top advisors were getting ready to conduct their daily meeting - without the King's presence - the man burst into his throne room. Everyone stood and snapped to attention to face their king, who somehow looked even more demented than usual.

"I'VE SEEN IT!" the Bablyonian bellowed. "THE LIGHT! I WENT IN THERE!"

Everyone exchanged a nervous look as Nebuchadnezzar began pacing back and forth in the doorway, stopping only when he slammed into one of its sides. He then spun around, facing the empty hallway, and raised his arms grandly. "We must adopt Patronage! I have seen it!"

One of the advisors behind the Babylonian leader coughed uncomfortably. "Milord, that's not even an-"

"SILENCE!" Nebuchadnezzar roared, pointing at one of the suits of armor lining the hallway. "You dare question my authority!? You will pay with your taffy!"

The Babylonian then ripped an axe out of the hand of a nearby suit of armor and then began to wail on the offending set with the flat end of it, while the advisors slowly returned to their work.

* * *

Augustus sighed and leaned back in his seat as the roar of the coliseum grew stronger. While he was safe in his personal box overlooking the large arena, the crowd was beginning to get worked up into a frenzy. One of the gladiators in the match he had been forced to watch out of tradition - the loser - apparently felt it would be a good use of his dying breaths to condemn his policies to his face, and the spectators, already pumped up from watching the match and more than just a little too emotionally invested in their new champion, responded in kind. And now he was forced to watch a riot in the making as spectators began jumping out of their seats and into the pit or otherwise trying to climb thorough the maze of seats all in a vain attempt to get closer to his box.

The Roman didn't particularly care about what they were shouting about - not that he could make any of it out, anyways - but the last thing he felt like dealing with was an angry mob. Rubbing his temples, he stood up from his lavish chair and walked to the edge of the booth, causing the crowd to silence immediately.

"What, exactly, is it that you want?" Augustus asked, doing his best to not sound irritated. An eerie calm fell over the crowd before it erupted in one singular voice.

"CHANGE!" they all shouted, and the Princeps rolled his eyes and turned to one of his guards.

"Very well; give them their change," the Praetorian nodded and took off into the passage behind them that connected to the Imperial Palace. Augustus tapped his sandal against the stone floor impatiently as he glanced down at an imaginary wrist watch; the crowd below just grew increasingly wary as the minutes passed, a few at the back beginning to creep towards the exits. Finally, a group of Praetorians reappeared in the box, hauling a bathtub with them. Augustus only moved to the side while the crowd took a few cautious steps away as they put the tub on the edge and began to tilt its back upwards. This sent a torrent of denarii spilling into the arena, and the crowd quickly stared pushing and shoving against each other in an attempt to dive for the gold coins that were beginning to pile up, completely forgetting about their previous situation. August just shook his head and looked on disinterestedly.

"Animals..."

* * *

Justinian woke up to the cacophonous sounds of shouting coming from outside his bedroom window. The Byzantine threw off his covers - honestly, was it too much to ask to take a quick nap? - quickly donned his crown and favorite crimson robe over his pajamas, and marched out into the hallway. There had been protestors camped outside the Blachernae for a week now and it had worn down his last nerve.

He was the only leader left to not declare for an ideology, and was perfectly happy with that; as Augustus did have a point when he remarked they were all just sides to the same coin, but apparently not all the citizens shared his sentiments. There was technically nothing prohibiting them from protesting in the law code - all citizens did have a right to appeal directly to him, after all - but this was getting out of hand. And before the Emperor knew it, he was out on the plaza that led to the protestor-filled courtyard, them being kept from the palace by only a few fences and guards. Justinian forced his way past a few despite their objections, being met with the site of a multitude of picket fences and dirty-looking people all staring up at him expectantly. He took a deep breath and cleared his throat.

"You want change?" the crowd roared and began shouting out their demands all at once. Justinian just calmly raised a hand and the indiscernible yelling began to die down.

"All right," the Emperor replied, and he could feel the atmosphere change as he began whispering something to a nearby guard. The man nodded, retreated into the palace, and reappeared with a lightbulb. Justinian took it, and turned to a nearby wall lamp, reaching into it with no small amount of difficulty. The Emperor unscrewed the lightbulb, tossed it unceremoniously aside, screwed the new one in, and then tugged on the chain, turning on the lamp.

Justinian then turned back to the crowd, clapped his hands together, and held out his arms grandly. "There; change."

Everyone just looked at him incredulously for a few bated seconds before some quiet snickering escaped from the crowd. This gave way to suppressed chuckles and disgruntled murmurs as the picket signs were lowered and the protestors began to disperse. Justinian just yawned, rubbed his eyes, and slumped back into the Blachernae.

* * *

"Lord Nobunaga," the Daimyo looked up from his place at the table, placing down his teacup with a small 'klink'.

"Yes, Ieyasu?" the other Daimyo cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"The people seem to be valuing bushido more highly than in previous years," Ieyasu took another sip from his cup. "Perhaps it would be best to make concessions?"

Nobunaga raised an eyebrow, and a pit began to grow in Ieyasu's stomach as his lord's hand shifted slightly. Much to his relief, it was simply to take another sip from his tea.

"Very well," came Nobunaga's reply after placing down the cup again. Ieyasu raised an eyebrow incredulously.

"That's all, milord?" Nobunaga just looked up, eyes staring straight into Ieyasu, and he took cover behind his own teacup. "F-Forgive me, Lord Nobunaga."

Nobunaga just let out a 'hmph' and took another sip of his tea.


	8. Welcoming Committes

It was a rare slow day in the Blachernae; there were no leaders Justinian planned on meeting, not policies to be made or games to attend. And with no wars to be fought, there was absolutely nothing serious for the Byzantine to do beyond watching the servants scamper about the palace. So, that left him with one of his default pastimes; reading. While he had picked up a particularly thick history book to begin reading - finding historical inaccuracies in them was a particularly entertaining pastime - he also had a copy of the morning paper he had yet to read. Picking up the paper and practically feeling the newsprint smudge underneath his fingers, he was about to flip the page to a particular court case he had been following - ignoring the other articles such as a new study finding Chirper reduced brain cell count and that a glass of red wine was just as good as a workout at the gym - when the headline jumped out at him and practically slapped him across the face with its caption.

 _Civ VI Announced!_

Justinian had no time to ponder the implications the announcement had on the structural integrity of the fourth wall; there was business to attend to. Mainly preparing for the arrival of the newcomers. He leapt off his throne and rushed down the hallways, nearly bowling over some poor maid who had been too busy looking down at the laundry basket she was carrying to see the Leader, and quickly grabbed the nearest phone he could find. A couple of phone calls and a bit of waiting later, and Justinian found himself standing in the conference room that was usually reserved for the World Congress meetings, hauling an old mattress to a red x painted across the floor, while everyone else either watched in amusement or talked absentmindedly.

"Thanks for the help..." Justinian muttered with a heave as he finally let go of the edge of the mattress and straightened out his back. Augustus shrugged and Montezuma nodded intently.

"You're welcome!" the Aztec replied cheerfully as he sharpened his ceremonial dagger against the edge of the table. "I made sure the x didn't go anywhere this time! So, when are the sacrifices going to start?"

Justinian resisted the urge to facepalm and turned to face Montezuma.

"Montezuma, this isn't-" the Byzantine cut himself off. This was Montezuma he was dealing with; little words. Justinian cleared his throat again.

"Acutally, Montezuma, this time the gods will be giving something to us," the Emperor drawled sarcastically. Montezuma nodded like a an eager child being told a bedtime story, while Augustus cocked an eyebrow in amusement. Justinian continued. "They're sending us a new friend."

Montezuma let out an 'oh' in understanding and returned to his blade, while Justinian let out a sigh of his own. It wasn't exactly a lie; because if his fellow leaders trashing his palace with their meetings wasn't enough - and he certainly wasn't going to put up the resources to build a completely different building for the sole purpose of letting it get trashed (and neither would any of them, for that matter) - apparently something had decided that his palace was also the place to dump the new leaders in, because putting them in the capitals of their own civilizations would have been too convenient. Justinian looked up at the high roof as he heard a very faint yell sinking through the tiling.

 _"Speak of the devil..."_ many of the other leaders had stopped their own conversations as the yell became louder and louder, joining Justinian in looking up at the stone speed bump hanging above them. Seconds later the screaming leader crashed through the roof in a hail of dust and debris, the gathered leaders flinching as they instinctively covered their heads, only to crash into the mattress Justinian had been kind enough to lay out. The leaders cautiously gathered around the dust cloud that had engulfed that section of the room, coughing as it settled. Justinian blinked a few times at the figure lying facedown in the cushion and then looked up at the clear blue sky through the hole in the roof.

"Really!?" he shouted to whatever was up there.

"You sound like you're not happy to see me..." everyone looked down at the leader as he pushed himself up with a groan and began dusting himself off. Alexander finally stretched out his arms and popped his neck, while the remaining leaders scrutinized him.

"You look... different," Dido commented, eyes scanning over the bruised and bloodied Greek.

"Really?" Alexander wondered, looking down at himself and wiping away a bit of blood trickling down his arm. "One minute I was watching Odysseus' Island and the next moment I'm falling through thin air. Guess I never had time to notice."

"Regardless, I'm sending you the bill for the roof," Justinian said as he stormed off, muttering under his breath about the pointlessness of it all. The gathered leaders watched him leave with mixed emotions, before Bismarck cleared his throat.

"Zo, what now?" Alexander gave his usual cocky smile and gestured to conference table covered in gifts and food.

"Well, it would be a shame to let all of Justinian's hospitality go to waste, wouldn't it?"

* * *

Justinian ignored the sounds of shattering glass in the distance as he stormed off to his room in frustration, deciding that his presence would only exacerbate the situation.

"Honestly," he muttered as he threw open the door to his chambers, the only light in the room streaking through a gap in the curtains next to his bed. "If they're going to destroy my home the least they can do is send someone new..."

The Byzantine placed his crown on his nightstand and crawled under the covers. "Sometimes I wonder why I even get out of the bed in the morning..."

Justinian turned over and covered his other ear with the adjacent pillow to try to drown out the noise coming from the hallway, trying to ignore the growing pain in his head.

"At least I'm safe here..." he muttered to himself. Too busy trying to drown out the other Leader's noise with his pillow, he only heard the second bout of faint yelling when it was too late. He removed the pillow from his head and looked up at the ceiling; it caved in seconds later, none of the debris miraculously landing on him. The same couldn't be said for the leader that caused it.

"I-I say," came the voice of the leader currently crushing the Byzantine's ribcage. "That was a mighty fall, and where in blazes am I?"

"On my windpipe," Justinian wheezed out. The squat man currently sitting on Justinian - and the Byzantine couldn't see much of him beyond the brown suit, bushy moustache and round glasses, but he got the sense he had moved to look down at the unusually talkative cushion he had landed on.

"Oh, my sincerest apologies," getting off of him would have been a better one, Justinian mentally quipped, while the other leader continued. "What's your name, good sir?"

Justinian tried saying something, but it only came out as a strangled wheeze. He caught the other leader's brow furrow.

"Speak up son, I can't hear you!" the Emperor ignored the urge to scream.

"Justinian," he wheezed out. Due to the weight pressing down on his chest, however, it came out as 'juice'.

"Well that's an unusual name, but it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance Mr. Juice," the mustachioed leader said, giving him a bone-crushing handshake - because he apparently wasn't in enough pain already. "I'm Theodore Roosevelt, President of the United States of America, but you can just call me Teddy."

The portly American finally got off Justinian, who quickly gasped for air, and was about to head for the door when he turned back.

"You wouldn't happen to know where a 'Washington' fellow is, would you?" Theodore asked. Justinian figured responding would get him to leave quicker.

"Follow the trail of destruction, he should be nearby."

"Thank you, good sir," the American finally left, quietly closing the door behind him. The Byzantine let out a heavy sigh and closed his eyes, only to open them when he heard another scream coming from the roof. Justinian covered his face with a pillow and screamed.

* * *

 **Author's Notes:** Figures the week I'm away from a computer is the one the Civ VI is finally announced, and we can be near-certain that Alexander will be included (not that I'm complaining).

But anyways, here's my question to all of you; who are your top three black horse leader candidates for Civ VI, and what three new civs would you like to see the most? Personally, mine would be John II Komnenos for Byzantium, William the Conqueror for England, and Krishnadevaraya for India (I'd fit Charles V somewhere into that list were it not for how difficult it is to peg down a Civ for him), and Hungary, Armenia and the Mughals as civs. In other news, it appears that Cleopatra, Qin Shi Huang and Theodore Roosevelt are in for Civ VI, two of whom I did find to be rather surprising inclusions (and as we only have screenshots of Teddy, he was the only one to get an appearance in this chapter).


End file.
